


Getting Back to Not-Perfect

by TerribleImaginings



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: AU, Human!Derek, If Stiles is out of character don't hurt me, M/M, Most of the characters are minor excluding Derek and Stiles, Smut, This is going to be a multichapter fic apparently, WIP, When I say slow-build I mean reallllly slow, Why do I do this to myself, slow-build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerribleImaginings/pseuds/TerribleImaginings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles aren't perfect. Relationships never are.<br/>Derek won't stand for imperfection any longer, though, leaving Stiles without so much as a note. <br/>This is life after heartbreak.<br/>Slow-build, probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Misunderstandings and Unrequited Words

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez. Okay. So. Here's the deal. This is my first Sterek fic, and it was originally going to be a one-shot, but I'm going to make it multiple chapters. It's better that way, I think. I'm not sure how many there'll be, that depends on what my characters are going to be doing, but it'll be more than three, and they're all going to be, probably, around 1,000-2,500 words. I should warn you that I've never actually written a story!fic, so it's my first in more ways than one. It will also, hopefully, be the first time I publicly post porn. WOO.  
> Yeah, so.  
> Cool.

Things are not perfect.

  
It isn’t just because Stiles’ mouth sometimes makes things become verbalized in a way that isn’t flattering. It isn’t just because Derek forgets how to use his words sometimes. It’s not even, really, just because they fight over the small things, like which cereal to buy, or what station to listen to when Derek drives Stiles to work in the morning. (Stiles can’t drive anymore, not since the accident. A broken arm and a fractured collarbone cured him of any ideas he’d had about any road trips).

  
No, it’s none of those things. It’s Stiles’ complete inability to stay calm in Derek’s absence just as much as it’s Derek’s complete inability to stay in Stiles’ presence. It’s the way Stiles forces his opinions down Derek’s throat at the dinner table, the way his words fill any silence Derek wants to enjoy. It’s the way he contradicts Derek without even letting him share his thoughts, speaking for him as if he knows exactly what is on Derek’s mind at any given time, even though what he assumes of Derek is almost always wrong.

  
Derek feels, more so than Stiles, who has calmed down in the years previous, the need to move. He aches to run every day, needs to feel the glide of sandpapered wood under his fingers when he's carving, a habit he’d picked up after Stiles had moved into his home. His body requires the push-ups he forces himself to the ground to do, the laps in the pool or the weightlifting he takes part in at their local gym. (“Derek, as much as I love having you around,” Stiles had said, “you don't talk to anyone else. You need some friends, and since the only place you willingly go is the gym, you should start there.” It was rather contrary, later, when Stiles began asking exactly what he thought he was doing, leaving Stiles alone for hours at a time, after he came home from the station, to which Derek responded to with a huff and a cold shoulder) And Stiles, god, all Stiles does is talk and work and gripe and yell and demand sex. Derek can’t believe he’s dealing with this, honestly, and he wonders why he bothers.

  
Stiles always apologizes, running a hand through his hair and giving a wary chuckle, asking how he'd become so much like his father. Asks if Derek is sure that Stiles is still enough for him because, even with his position as Sheriff, he doesn’t think he has it in him to keep Derek busy, can’t satiate his needs any more, and he's right.

  
Derek will accept that, most days, sleeping on the couch when he doesn’t think he can actually stand to be close to Stiles in a way that is so intimate, if it isn’t sex. Not after Stiles has been complaining about his job, how he has to deal with these cases that aren’t even hard, just time-consuming, and how, really, if he’d known the job would use up as much of his time as it did, he wouldn’t have taken it. (Which Derek knows isn’t true, based on how he can see the contentedness radiating off of his partner when he comes home from the job, and he knows he just wants something to complain about) Not after he’d been yelling at Derek just moments before about how he’d done something wrong or forgotten to do some odd chore, since his modeling wasn’t a steady job, and if he thought Stiles was going to make all the money and not have Derek do some things around the house, he was wrong.

  
It’s not like Stiles acknowledges the fact that Derek always does the taxes and bills. He spends his days doing the laundry when it needs doing, watering the plants on the porch, vacuuming and dusting the rooms of their loft, which is actually two floors, including two bedrooms, a spacey kitchen, a living room, an office, and two full bathrooms, an open loft hanging above it all. There's a lot to clean, even if it is only the two of them, and Derek does have other things to do; he's gone, for the most part, for two or three days a week, going to his jobs in other cities, and he's always the one who arranges rides for Stiles while Derek is away. Not that Stiles never questions it when one of his coworkers or neighbors ends up outside of his door at 7:30 sharp every morning, wielding a cup of black coffee for Stiles. Not that Stiles notices any of the little things Derek does for him. No, all he does is bitch and moan about his work load or Derek’s lack of a social life and all the things he's doing wrong.

  
Derek is tired of having Stiles breathe down his neck, yell at him, and then complain about how Derek seems distant all the time.  
But Derek spontaneously decides that he’s had enough after a morning of Stiles yelling at him while Derek is in the shower about something having to do with an increase in bills and how Derek is going to have to sign on more jobs to support them, since he has so much free time now, and they could use the extra money because Stiles doesn’t want either of them to have to dip into their inheritance.

  
In his typical fashion, Derek's words elude him, white-knuckling the steering wheel until his partner steps out of the car with nothing more than a slightly confused look and a peck on the cheek. When he finds himself throwing odd clothes and shoes into a suitcase after he drives Stiles to work, he knows he's done and there's no turning back for him.

  
He’s not exactly sure what brings it on, just that he can’t be there anymore. He has to go. He needs to start over somewhere new, leave Stiles so he can become his own person instead of who he has become while he’s been with Derek. And, no Stiles won’t understand when Derek is gone, but it doesn’t matter. He won’t have too much trouble getting over it, since Derek is just the person he comes home to complain to.

  
As he attempts to make his escape, his fingers stumble across the picture frames on their bureau; their smiling faces from years before bring a stinging, hissing feeling of guilt and grief from the pit of his stomach to his throat. He almost lets the bag fall from hands right then, tries to tell himself that Stiles loves him, that he loves Stiles, and that the sex is great, which it really, really is, and that they can work it out if they just spend a little more time talking to each other rather than at. He shakes his head and pushes the memories to face the dark wood below them. He hopes the happy memories fade so that he has an easier time with all of this, and he’s almost certain they will; the happiest memories they shared had been so long ago that even they were faded around the edges.

  
It takes him an hour of being curled up in their bed to make himself move. If he’s losing Stiles anyway, there’s no point in being in pain, seeing him every day as he walks down the streets of the town they live in, too small to avoid each other. It takes him another twenty minutes to write and burn the note that can’t possibly explain his reasoning to the man he is leaving.

  
When he leaves the apartment, he locks it and slips the key into the small, potted tree that sits next to their door. Stiles, he imagines, will take the bus home, like he normally does, since there’s a bus that passes his office at around the time that Stiles gets off. He’ll come home, try the door that now wriggles in Derek’s hands, and realize that Derek isn’t home. He’ll grab the spare key (will he notice there are two, now?) and go in, starting dinner and setting the table for the both of them. How long will he wait before he realizes that tonight is the night that Derek won’t be eating cold soup? How long will he allow horrible possibilities to run through his mind before he understands what Derek does now, that he’s a complete and utter ass, instead of waiting for him to waltz through the door?

  
The questions chase him through the lobby doors and into the not-busy-enough streets of Beacon Hills.


	2. Writing, Pining, and Asking for Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start this chapter by saying that the only reason that I'm updating so soon is because I was on a writing kick yesterday and I ended up writing it. Yeah. So. Stiles should be less of an....asshole? In this chapter? Who knows. Also, am I the only one who is kind of in love with model!Derek? Probably.

After a year, four months, and six days of Derek’s absence, Stiles will still sometimes make enough dinner for the both of them, putting an extra plate in Derek’s place as if he’ll actually come home to eat off of it. Bitterness and resentment rise in his chest as he lays in his bed at night, entirely too large for Stiles’ form that is used to sharing, but a more hurt feeling, betrayal and pain, lingers too. He hasn’t yet left the place they shared. Maybe he should. Maybe then he won’t be chased by questions like, “What could I have done differently?” and “Why didn’t he leave a note?”

On Stiles’ darker days, he’d call in sick. Now that he’s not the Sheriff—given the complete mess he’d become when Derek left, they’d revoked the title from him, saying he wasn’t quite fit to do the job any longer—he can afford more days off, more days to sulk in his home. Jobless people relying on their inheritance can do that.

Stiles, though, after a month of quiet, elongated sulking, got tired of feeling sorry for himself. He’d gotten angry, he’d thrown things, breaking holes in the walls Derek used to press him up against. After the month he'd been out of work, he went back to the police station, seeking out a job in the place he’d practically grown up. They allowed him back on the strict terms that he would have no vacation time for the next six months as punishment—nothing that involved Stiles and the police station was very professional, as it was more his home than the apartment ever had been. It wasn’t if Stiles had anywhere to go, so he accepted the offer willingly.

He'd thrown himself in the work, taking whatever they’d give him. He spent all of his days at the station, refusing to take breaks. There was no reason for him to go home, now, no reason for him to sit alone in his kitchen and eat microwave dinners and watch TV if he could be working instead. So that's what he did. Six month went by in a blur, and by the time they were ushering the new year in, his coworkers were _urging_ him to take time off. (“Stiles, you’ve been working weekends for the past _three months._ Do you ever go home?”)

He had, unwillingly, taken off for a week. The time was spent visiting the few people he had left--Scott and Allison, Melissa, Isaac. Given that he hadn't seen any of them in more than a year, he figured it was overdue. When he’d come back, there was a younger man sitting at the front desk, probably a few years younger than the 32 years that Stiles claimed, and Stiles found himself drawn to the dimples and bright red hair and the kindness he gave out so willingly.

Stiles started working early mornings at the station in the next four months for an entirely different reason than forgetting.

For the first time since Derek left, he wanted to remember.

Not for the first time, he wanted to be better prepared for his future before he dove into something he wasn’t ready for.

So here he was, Googling Derek Hale like it was a casual thing for him to do. He felt vaguely like a stalker, clicking the website that immediately popped onto screen, proclaiming that Mr. Hale was open to businesses that wanted to use him for commercials, posters, or billboards, three little headshots of him at the top of the screen. Stiles sighed, figuring that he should have known he wouldn’t get an email straight to Derek. No smart man would put their own phone number or email address on the internet for anyone who tapped their name into a search bar.

Derek was a male model. Stiles forgot that sometimes, mostly because he didn’t fit the stereotype at all. He worked hard and only often enough that he felt like he was helping to support the two of them. He’d go as far as Los Angeles, sometimes, if the job would fly him out and if it was worth leaving home for a few days. Now that Stiles thought about it, he’d been taking a lot of those trips prior to his abandonment. There were a lot of things that had come to light since Derek left, and they opened his eyes to just how horrible Stiles had been to Derek. Too be fair, though, Derek hadn’t exactly been the best partner, either.

He shook as many thoughts from his head as he dared before clicking the link on how to contact him. There was a mail box and an Email—Stiles had spent days curled up in his room, calling the number Derek had yet to change but never answered, alternating between throwing things around the room, staring blankly at his computer, and crying until his own snot covered his shirt and his throat was raw—and Stiles thought that would be perfect. Assuming that Derek’s agent wouldn’t even open the email if he saw Stiles’ email address, he created a new one. It didn’t take him more than a minute to work up the courage to open one a document.

He fingers moved rapidly over the keys. The subject was something that he’d seen in the emails Derek had been sent when they’d lived together. What came in the next ten minutes was this:

_Derek, or Derek’s agent—is it still Kathy?—please just hear me out._

_It’s me. Stiles. Before you close this and delete it without reading further, I’d like to say some things. I’d also like to ask that, whoever Derek’s agent is now, you stop reading and let Derek decide if he wants to read. I don’t think you’d have an interest in hearing some of the things I have to say._

_I dove off of a cliff when my dad died, and I turned into an asshole. Completely self-absorbed, never let you speak or tell me what you thought without criticizing you. I complained about useless things. I babbled. I asked you for things you couldn’t give me, like every minute that I wasn’t working with you. That was wrong. I hung off of you, wherever we went, and I yelled at you for doing what you wanted instead of what I wanted. I realize, now, that that isn’t how relationships work out. I don’t know how you put up with me for so long. I don’t know if I could have done it._

_You were a fucking saint for the majority of our time together. I worshiped you. I did, really. You were pretty much the only person I loved, after my dad died. I’m pretty sure you knew that. That I loved you more than I love myself, and if you’d have_ talked _to me, asked me to change for you, I would have. I would have done anything you wanted._

_And that’s where you were the asshole._

_You weren’t ever perfect, either. A saint, maybe, but not perfect. You were moody. You couldn’t use your words, didn’t know how to work things out unless there was violent sex involved. When I suggested something that we could do together, you yelled about how maybe you wanted to do something else. You drank too much. You got angry at really minute things, things that wouldn’t have mattered if we weren’t the people we are. Were. I don’t know who you are anymore, but I’m certainly not the man you left._

_I hope you’ve found someone who can treat you the way you want to be treated. I hope you find someone who can wipe that omnipresent scowl off of your face with just a word, like I used to be able to. I hope you find someone who won’t mind that you don’t put the cap on your toothpaste, or that you walk around the house naked after a shower—though I’m not sure what human being would mind that—or that you can’t eat spicy food without getting major gas. I hope you find someone who can love you like I did, because I really, really did love you, even if you didn’t love me, in the end._

_But don’t think that means I want you back._

_I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. You’re pretty much the last person I want to contact, to be honest. I’m doing this for reasons that don’t involve you. I mean, yeah, I’m searching you out of my own free will, but don’t think that means I still care about you in that way. I don’t. I won’t make that mistake twice._

_But, seriously, if you could just give me some answers? I think I deserve them. I_ do _deserve them. We had a nearly ten year relationship, and I’d like to know where I fucked it up, so I can avoid doing it again, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to treat someone the way I must have treated you to make you feel like leaving without a word or a note was the best option. I just need some clarification._

He paused there, not really knowing _what_ he needed clarification on. On what not to do? On how to be a better person? About how not to drive someone away by needing them?

On why Derek didn’t think they could have worked it out?

Because, really, wasn’t that what this message was about, under all the dicking around?

Stiles was _hurt._ There was no avoiding that, despite his current feelings on the man. Where did that come from, leaving someone you gave _nine and a half years_ of your life to without a note or a call? That sort of thing didn’t come from someone who wasn’t part of the problem.

_I need clarification on why you thought that you were the only one who was unhappy in our relationship. I bet you never thought about what I was going through. Not that I’m going to ask you to, since it matters less than the fact that you left your family’s photo album behind._

Stiles contemplated erasing that bit. It was a low blow. He didn’t speak to his sister, Cora, anymore, at least not from what she told Stiles, and the rest of his family had been killed in a car crash some four years before he and Stiles had met. In the end, he decided that Derek brought it on himself, if he had left it behind.

_I guess my point is that it takes two to Tango. The difference between you and I, though, is that I really did love you, despite the fact that you got angrier and angrier the more I expressed that to you. By the time I realized that you’d stopped saying the words, just responding with distant, “you, too”’s, I was preparing myself for the talk. Never in my worst nightmares did I think I wouldn’t even have had you as a friend. I didn’t think you were that cruel._

_That was wrong, obviously. I would have settled for lunch on Tuesday’s at Marcy’s Diner down the street. I would have let you keep the apartment, would have moved closer to the police station, since I know you’ve griped about how far a drive it is, and I’d have to walk, anyway. I might have drunk dialed you a few times, knowing you wouldn’t call me out on it the next day. But I realized something about you, too, when you left._

_My behaviors changed you, too. My traits were yours. Yours were mine. And maybe my codependency problems wouldn’t have allowed me to leave—I’ve been talking to a therapist who says I have a dangerous combination of codependency and long-term depression, along with an anxiety disorder that was triggered by dad’s death, which really didn’t help my blabbing to you—but I figured yours wouldn’t have, either. Where my instincts told me to draw you closer as I was losing you, yours told you to break all ties. I guess I overestimated how much we were alike._

_I’ve gotten off track. I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to turn into something that was criticizing you. Really. I’m sorry. I just felt the need to let you know that I am sorry. For expecting more from you than you could give, for dishing what I_ couldn’t _take, and for driving you away._

_Listen, I just wanted to know if I’ve got everything. There’s a guy who started working at the station, Danny, and I was thinking of asking him out. I need to be sure I know what not to do. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this for me if I didn’t think you would understand, Derek. Please don’t hold this against me. I just think that I deserve to be happy again, and to attempt to make someone else happy, the way we used to be._

_Best Wishes, Seriously,_

_Stiles_


	3. Idiots and Insufficient Diction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek makes me upset. (I love it) How can you write Derek without giving him an angsty backstory?  
> Answer: You can't.  
> Also. I don't exactly proofread my chapters like I should. I pretty much write them and post them. That said, I'm sorry for any mistakes or inconsistencies.  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I really appreciate it.  
> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaalso (again) there is mention of attempted suicide in this chapter. Just thought I'd throw that in there.

Derek sits in front of the computer for a moment, staring, as his shaking fingers bring a bottle of beer to his lips like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him from throwing something or yelling at the empty air of his apartment. It is, to be fair, probably the thing keeping his hands from worrying at his scalp or the stubble on his chin. Alcohol’s been his vice since he realized he no longer had one, or that he’d left it in Beacon Hills.

He, too, had come to realize a few things about himself since he’d left the boy he’d watched grow into a man.

The most prevalent one? He depended on Stiles more than he could have realized if he hadn’t left. Stiles cooked for him, delicious meals filled with vegetables, fruit, and meat without Derek even realizing it; Derek can probably burn water. His partner _did,_ in fact, make most of the money to support their small household, despite the job of Sheriff not exactly making them rich. Derek is now face to three or four small companies, and it is enough to support him, though he is grateful for the one-time jobs that come in once a week or so. He’d had to dip into his family’s savings for the first few months he’d lived in New York, though.

Another thing he’s noticed is the fact that Stiles kept him balanced. He’s been irritable, snappy. Unfriendly. It has been hard to get clients to hire him more than once if they don’t have a contract. He’s been hard on himself, hitting the gym every night and staying for hours at a time; not buying anything but what he needs—he doesn’t even own a couch or TV; drinking the extra money he makes or putting it in savings. He hasn’t had sex in nearly six months—even when he did, those first few months, they’d been one-night-stands that were gone by the time he woke up. Derek just couldn’t live like that.

He’d honestly _lived_ off of the cuddling Stiles assumed that he forced on Derek. It had been strange, the first few times it had happened, mostly because it was intimate in a way that sex wasn’t, but Derek hadn’t realized how much it soothed his nerves. Knowing that the person who loves you is tucked around you is infinitely better than having sex with someone who doesn’t.

He’s also come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t like silence all that much. Living alone can teach you that about yourself, and he’s taken to turning on the radio station Stiles used to listen to—which, he realizes, is sort of clingy, but hey, his guilt keeps him from being able to contact Stiles in any way, and if a radio station can satiate that need in the slightest, then he’ll listen to it all he wants—just to bring sound to the loft he is renting. He can hear the voices of his neighbors, but it isn’t the same as having someone to talk to or something of your own to listen to.

The desperate way he’s taken to using/listening to/doing things Stiles likes to do is a little embarrassing at the best times. He’ll listen to the police monitor in the background, sometimes, instead of Stiles radio station, because Stiles would do it while they ate dinner. He sits in café’s whenever he gets the chance, playing the games Stiles had gotten him into on his laptop with his headphones in as he sips black coffee. He wears the clothes that Stiles told him he looked good in (“Though, babe, you look good in anything, with that ass.”) when he goes to jobs, and he doesn’t eat a meal without some kind of vegetable in it.

Stiles still has a hold over him, even from across the country, that he can’t shake. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of the traits that Stiles had invested in Derek, and he is really okay with that. In a way, it made him feel like he still had him.

Not that Derek has a right to “have him,” not after what he’s done to him.

It had taken Derek nearly three months to pick up a phone and attempt to call Stiles. When he’d finally done it, Derek had thrown the phone into a wall before the third ring, smashing it to pieces, because, _god_ , he didn’t deserve to even speak to Stiles after leaving him in such an inconsiderate way. Yeah, he’d been angry, and yeah, he’d had a lot of reasons to go, but what they had was cracked, not broken, like Derek thought it had been. What they had was Stiles _trying_ to communicate, Stiles being willing to talk it out, and Derek being an asshole at every turn.

Everything was Derek’s fault. That was why he couldn’t call him, why he couldn’t email or text him. That was why he had to change his number, so he didn’t pick up and give himself the comfort of hearing Stiles voice after so many months of dicking around and leaving Stiles without an explanation. But after those months, it's no longer about Stiles. After reading the email, Derek realizes just how much more of an asshole it made him, how self-centered of him it was, not to call Stiles and explain a goddamned thing.

And, so, that’s exactly what he does, without thinking, dials Stiles’ number and presses his phone to his ear, breathing as deeply as he dares through his nose to calm his nerves.

There’s a loud muffling, noises competing with each other in the background. “Hello?” Stiles voice says, the same as the day he left, marred only by the inconsistency of the phone lines. Derek almost breaks down in tears, because _holy mother of fuck_ he has missed that voice.

Derek doesn’t say anything for so long, not trusting his voice, that he’s rather surprised that Stiles stay on the line. When he does, finally, speak, it comes out as a muffled sound, a broken one that conveys nothing but guilt. “Stiles,” his throat croaks out.

Even over the phone, he can hear Stiles shushing someone, but sound is still fluid behind the noise of the phone. Derek’s heart falls, wonders if he’s too late to get Stiles back, unconsciously, before telling himself sternly that, _no,_ Stiles isn’t his, won’t be his again. He doesn’t deserve to have Stiles.

“Derek?” Stiles breathes, his voice uncommitted. Derek isn’t surprised that it took only one word to give away his identity; Stiles knows Derek's voice inside out, every pitch it owns and every note it carries, the same way Derek knows Stiles’.

His eyes claw at the floor beneath his feet, as if it’s responsible for the way he’s treated Stiles. “Yeah,” he says into the phone that suddenly feels entirely too impersonal, “I got your email.”

Stiles sighs, but it is more like a sound of frustration and impending arguments than relief, and Derek isn’t sure how to feel about that. “What about it? I figured you’d just send an email, or you wouldn’t respond. I’m kind of surprised that your agent forwarded it on to you in the first place.”

“Why? I asked him to send me anything that came from you to me the moment it came in, if it ever did. I’ve wanted to talk to you for so long—“

Now, Stiles sounds full-on angry, and the background noises that lulled Derek before are vacant. “Then why _didn’t_ you?” The tension in Stiles voice is so familiar that he feels some of the old anger surface in his blood. He silences it with the reminder that he deserves whatever anger Stiles bestows on him.

“I don’t know.” His voice is small, as if cowering. It is a strange feeling.

Derek can almost see the tilt of his head, the squint of his eyes as he says, “Bullshit, you don’t know.”

A large hand runs over his face. “I regretted leaving a few days after I left. I didn’t _deserve_ to talk to you.”

“And you don’t think _I_ deserved to know that?” There is no mistaking the hurt in his voice, the tidal wave of emotion that Derek can imagine doesn’t even compare to what he’d caused when he left. “You don’t think that would have helped me, after what you did?”

“It wouldn’t have fixed anything—“

“You’re _damn right_ it wouldn’t have fixed anything! Jesus _Christ,_ Derek, no, it wouldn’t have fixed anything, but you owed me a fucking explanation.  Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me like this?” There is a shaking in his voice that speaks of frustrated tears and flared nostrils. “Look,” he begins again, tone wavering after the moment of silence, “if you could just, you know, answer my questions. Please. In an email, or—or something. Just…Please. Don’t call me again. You owe me that much.”

Derek’s teeth grind together, cheeks sucked into his mouth, though the anger and flustering of his mind is more towards himself than it is Stiles. “Okay. I won’t call.” And as his teeth press against each other again, he sort of can’t believe himself. Why the hell did he call Stiles? Where was his reasoning? It was a bad idea, there was no way it could have ended well. “I’m sorry,” he says, and taps the ‘end call’ button before launching his phone across the room.

He can’t believe he’s _so fucking stupid._

Not that that’s a new feeling for Derek. He fucks pretty much everything up.

First, it was the car accident with his family. As the fucking driver, he should’ve been the first one killed. He shouldn’t even have been _driving,_ not really, not when his mom, dad, uncle, aunt, and older sister had been in the car with him. Why let the youngest driver take control?

But, Jesus, they’d let him. And he’d spun out on the side of the road, the entire right and back side of the SUV smashed in, mixing twisted metal and the flesh and blood of his family together. Only he and his uncle Peter had survived it, and Derek still had nightmares and scars.

He’d killed five people. Talia. His father. Laura. Peter’s wife, Caroline. Peter’s _child._ He obviously didn’t deserve Peter’s companionship, not after Derek had caused him so much pain. And Derek didn’t blame him. Cora...He couldn't face her, not after he left Stiles. They'd grown close and he felt like she belonged more to Stiles than she ever had to him.

It’s not the end, Derek is finding, that hurts the most. It’s what happens after. Burying his entire family with only his sister to support him had been hard. The days, weeks, months, _years_ that followed? The funeral didn’t even come close to the feeling that you were so far under that living didn’t even sound worth it anymore. As it was, he’d attempted suicide two times before he’d met Stiles.

And when he’d met Stiles, he made a vow that he’d treat him right. His ability to fuck things over so badly that they couldn’t be revived with the hand of God came in and ruined anything he could have had with Stiles.

Maybe that’s okay, he reasons. Stiles will—god, it hurts him just to think about Stiles with anyone else—get with the new person at his office. He’ll be happy. All he wants is Derek to tell him what he has to do differently.

So, when Derek pulls out his laptop, he knows exactly what to write.

_Don’t change anything. Be yourself._


	4. Video Games and Beer Are a Mans Best Friend (Screw the Dog)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a nice manly chat between old friends and some things are brought to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so. Chapters. Four or five days to a week is what I'm going to aim for to have chapters out, but I'm not entirely sure. It all depends on my energy, my time, and my ability to not be completely disgusted with what I'm writing. So. There's that.  
> Thank you so much for reading this, if you have, it makes me happy. Thank you for your comments!  
> Stiles time.

Stiles is so fucking angry.

His hands are shaking as the phone drops onto the concrete beneath his feet, teeth pressing like they’re daring the other to break. The anger shakes his thoughts from his head, hands pushing the door to the coffee shop he’d been in before Derek had decided to ruin his day, because _really?_ What the hell? What the _hell?_

Stiles is that angry feeling that leaves you incapable of anything but a good fucking cry and a good fucking rant to someone close to you, and maybe have a little panic attack. So, what he does, after he smacks money down on the table he’d been sitting at and storms out once again, is calls Scott.

He doesn’t pick up for three rings, but Stiles is already in his jeep. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, neither of them do. (Stiles won’t usually _call_ unless something horrible has happened or something amazing has happened, but Scott knows well enough the bodily functions of Stiles that he can tell from just the angry breathing on the other side of the phone) When Scott does speak, it’s a simple, “Stiles?”

Words are caught in Stiles throat, things like, “Derek’s an idiot,” and, “I’m so stupid,” but he settles on, “Come over when you’re finished with work, Scott. Please.”

Scott is one of the best people Stiles has ever known, so all he gives is an, “Okay,” and ends the call, letting Stiles work what he needs to out before he starts crying angry tears with Scott on the phone. Scott knows how much he hates crying in front of people.

So Stiles talks himself down from a panic attack, dribbles of snot working their way from his nose as he clicks the lock of his apartment—their apartment, he’s still expecting to see Derek sitting there, waiting for him—open and slams it behind him because _really?_ Derek hasn’t been in his life for a _year and a half_ and he can reduce him to a slobbering mess of panic attacks and calling _Scott_ , for god’s sake, with nothing more than a phone call.

He’s, like, 60% disgusted with himself. He has already reserved the other 40% for Derek.

Because, _goddamn it,_ it took just over fifty words—he’d counted every breath, every pause, every word, the fucking infatuated child he was—to rip every seam he’d tried to sew back up since he left open again. Derek fucking Hale was someone that Stiles was still in love with.

There wasn’t any avoiding it. He’d felt that old feeling rise in his chest, that feeling of need and want and yes, irritation, but also desire to hold and caress and pull little moans out of Derek’s throat. He felt the need for all of what they had. And if that didn’t frustrate the hell out of him, he didn’t know what did.

That didn’t mean, though, that he’d stop whatever he was doing with Danny, just because his stupidly attractive, complete-asshole ex was reminding him of old times. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t go on with the plan to ask said man out to dinner at that diner on Capitol Street next Thursday. That didn’t mean Stiles would stop exchanging little smirks and teasing remarks with him. It just meant that he’d have to work a little harder to flush out what he thought was gone.

And if he’d thought it was gone, he was safe, right? He was safe as long as Derek wasn’t here, which, thank god he wouldn’t set foot here as long as he lived. At least, Stiles hoped he had enough common sense to know not to, since he’d have the entire police station on his ass if he did.

Stiles found himself on his couch, staring blankly at the floor of his living room. Scott was probably five minutes away, judging by a text he’d sent a few minutes early, proclaiming that he was on his way and speeding. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure how they’d went their own ways, during college, but he was almost entirely sure it was his fault.

Stiles had attended a school just outside of Beacon Hills, while his best friend had gone somewhere a little further south and a little closer to Allison—his now wife—but he was still close enough that he could drive up and see Stiles, the sheriff, and his mother roughly once a month for a long weekend. Stiles had let him go, but that wasn’t what made him think it was his fault that they’d gone apart.

What made it his fault was the fight they’d had when Scott came home for Christmas break.

Skimming over the details, Stiles had been drunk and called Scott out on leaving his family behind for _some girl_ —Stiles had never been in love, so what was this little thing with Allison to him but something that was taking his best friend away?—and other rude things he didn’t like looking back on. In the end, Scott stayed at a hotel for the three days leading up to Christmas before heading back to campus to spend the rest of break with Allison.

Scott and Stiles didn’t speak again for three years, except for the occasional confrontation at the recently made Stilinski-McCall home. Derek was in the picture by then, and he’d really been the one to bring them back together.

Stiles’ father died a year later.

Scott, Derek, Melissa, and Stiles had spent a good week together after the event, most of which consisted of verging Stiles off of panic attacks and Scott and Derek pretending they hadn’t seen Melissa crying. It wasn’t a fun ordeal for anyone involved.

Scott, that said, had been fond of Derek and didn’t see it coming when he left. No one had, really. Scott had skipped over the mourning process and gone straight to angry, calling Derek more times than Stiles had, leaving threats and promises of castration that Stiles has no problem imagining him carrying out.

Then, out of nowhere, there is a knock at the front door, drawing the swirling thoughts inside of Stiles’ head to a standstill. It is the only warning there is before Scott is in the door and on the couch next to Stiles, holding two beers. He doesn’t say anything, just opens the beverages and hands one to Stiles, drinking from his own.

Stiles doesn’t really know if he can feel bad, right now, for taking Scott away from the baby girl and wife he has at home, because really, he needs Scott, too, and he figures it is okay to have some time to wallow with his best friend, once and a while. He knows Allison won’t mind, either; they’ve become good friends and she met Derek. She will understand that Scott isn’t just hers.

Looking back at it, an hour later, after two more beers have been consumed and Scott has lost to Stiles in three different video games, Stiles doesn’t know if he even regrets it.

It’s near the time where it’s looking like Scott is going to finally beat Stiles that the cop says, “Derek called today,” words crisp and clear and devoid of any emotion.

Scott’s movements falter only in the aggressive way he now grips the controller. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I sent him an email.” He laughs a little, a sound of irony and self-abhorrence. “Stupid idea. Went in thinking I was talking about asking Danny out, came through it yelling at him. He called me, anyway. I guess he took it as me saying that talking to me was okay, but I just ended up getting pissed and yelling some more.” His throat constricts around a shaky sigh. “I don’t really remember, but I think I told him to fuck off.” His thumbs finish Scott off, and he _does_ feel a little guilty for taking advantage of Scott’s inability to pay attention to conversation and play video games at the same time. He pauses the game as Scott huffs a little.

“That _was_ kind of dumb,” he says, and he and Stiles can laugh about it. Stiles is really lucky to have someone like Scott, who knows him so well that he can detangle his frustration and anger just by _being_ there. “That doesn’t mean you were in the wrong, though. And,” he says, pausing, so Stiles knows he won’t like what’s coming next, “I don’t think you have to stop talking to him. You guys could still be friends. You don’t have to be in a relationship, if you can stand it without ripping each other’s heads off.”

The thing is, Stiles doesn’t know if he could handle even calling Derek to find out how he’s been doing. He really doesn’t. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle a civil conversation if he can’t even hear the sound of Derek’s voice without going into a full-on rage. “I think I’d like to be able to talk to him. It’s irrational and never going to work, but I’d like it.”

And then Scott nods, like he’s accepted it, even though Stiles knows he doesn’t think Stiles will do anything to pursue Derek’s companionship. “I don’t blame you for waiting this long. If Allison and I ever broke up, I would probably burst into tears at the mention of her, probably years after it. I know how it was with you and Derek. I just want to see you happy, Stiles, and he gave you that.”

Stiles wants to be happy, too.

He just can’t see it with Derek, not anymore.

-          -

Work the next day isn’t what Stiles expected it to be. Danny isn’t at his desk, which makes Stiles question whether or not fate is telling him something. After shaking his head and making his way into his office, he just thinks fate is screwing him.

His position as detective—he’s running for sheriff again when the next election is held, but, for now, detective is as high as they’ll allow him—gives him his own room, formerly as neat as Stiles keeps anything, filing cabinets crowding the walls, pictures smiling on his desk. Now, there are two cups of what used to be coffee on the desk, emptied by the, and here’s what gets Stiles attention, Hawaiian desk-worker that is sleeping heavily in his chair.

Stiles tries not to rustle any of the papers that Danny must have pushed to the ground as he’s moving towards the man. A small poke to the shoulder and Danny is jolted into a sitting position, red lines from the notebook-pillow he’d been resting on etched into his tanned face. “Stiles,” he murmured, sleep-groggy voice pulling a grin onto Stiles’ face. He cracks his neck and stretches his arms before falling back onto the desk.

Grin still in place, Stiles asks, “Is there a particular reason you slept, not in your home, but at my desk, last night?”

“You were supposed to come in and I was going to keep you company since I got the late shift again,” he replies, response muffled through thick arms.

Guilt surges through Stiles’ body. That’s right. He’d left early, but he was supposed to return at ten for the night shift. It had completely slipped Stiles’ mind. “I’m so, so sorry. There was an… incident, and I had to run home, but I forgot all about being on for last night. Oh, god. I’m sorry.”

Finally, Danny sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’m on this morning, but you can make it up to me with coffee and food at lunch. You’re paying.” His face is straight, but his tone is amused, and Stiles can actually see himself falling in love with this man.

With a brief nod and raised eyebrows, Stiles can’t help but wonder if Danny hasn’t really been planning this. “Well, it looks like you beat me to the punch, then, because I was going to ask you to dinner on Thursday. We’re both off. How does Matteo’s sound? 7 o’clock?” He pauses, eyes finding the ceiling and working something out in his head before they settle back on Danny. “Lunch is still a thing that’s happening, though, so. Yeah. 11. Be ready.”

His response is a grin that’s all dimples and Stiles _definitely_ isn’t comparing it to a grin smothered in facial hair.


	5. The Woes of Exes and Finding Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did, like...two minutes of research on this chapter. From the reliable source of Wiki, I figured that the general location of Beacon Hills was in the middle of northern California. For my purposes, it's roughly forty minutes outside of Sacramento.  
> I should probably mention that the plot is, like, EXTREMELY flexible, at this point. I thought I had an overall goal, I really did, but then I had a discussion with one of my friends that ended in "DON'T YOU DARE" on her part, and, well...That was all shot to hell.  
> It's either going dramatically one way, or dramatically the other, so, y'know, just be prepared for that.  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos and pointing out things that I miss! It saves me from the embarrassment of showing my idiocy further, and I appreciate that.  
> Also, Derek's bitchy side comes out in this chapter. That's...well, it's a plus for me, but I don't know what it is for other people. SO, YEAH. Chapter time.

He doesn’t work for a few weeks. His agent, Jackson Whittemore, is fine with that, though he gripes about all of the opportunities Derek is missing. Derek knows that Jackson just wants the money he inevitably makes off of each shoot Derek does, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

No, the next four or five days consist of him sitting in his apartment, alcohol in his hand, watching cheesy 80’s movies. (And _dammit_ , it’s not because he can remember all of the commentaries Stiles had made on them, really, it’s just because they’re his dirty little pleasure. He doesn’t laugh when The Breakfast Club gets high and he can hear Stiles’ snort and say something about the time he got Derek high and watched him try to cook—they’d had to buy a new spatula after that. He doesn’t even crack a smile when he reaches the part in Sixteen Candles where Stiles had gotten bored and started giving him hickeys)

He’s definitely not thinking about Stiles as he dials up Jackson, the bottle in his hand cold and slick against his skin. “Jackson?”

There’s a sigh that makes it sound like Derek is interrupting something. “What?” comes the sharp response.

Derek supposes he isn’t his agent’s favorite client, not right now, but he growls a little anyway. Mostly to keep up appearances, but partially because Jackson is a fucking dick. “Who’s sent in requests for me in the past month? In California.” Derek has gotten pretty popular since he left Stiles. Enough that people started asking for him, which wasn’t something that happened all the time.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, like his agent is checking a list or leaving a room. “One company in Sacramento, two in San Francisco.”

Sacramento was only forty minutes from Beacon Hills. He tried to tell himself he didn’t blurt, “I’ll take the Sacramento job as soon as possible,” because he could stay in a hotel in Beacon Hills, the one across from their old apartment, while he was working.  

He’s never been good at convincing himself of things, though, and when the call ends, he tosses out the bottle and crawls into bed early.

The too-fucking-happy birds outside start chirping the next morning and he can’t help the groan that physically _crawls_ out of his throat. A wicked hangover and the realization that _damn_ he’s an idiot are enough to send him tumbling over the side of his bed and into the bathroom.

It takes him a moment to adjust to the harsh light of the bathroom—he used to be a morning person, teasing Stiles for having such a hard time waking up and kissing him until he couldn’t go back to sleep—but when he does, it leaves a dull ache in his skull. His numb fingers fumbled to turn the shower on before he fell onto the toilet seat. Hands cradled his head.

This isn’t a new thing, not for Derek. In fact, it is usually how his mornings go, rolling out of bed well into the day and fucking around in the bathroom until the bout of self-loathing passes.

When he looks up, he is almost disappointed to see his own reflection, steam-contorted, glaring back at him. There are red rings around his bright eyes—though, really, they don’t seem all that bright, not anymore—and the stubble on his jaw can’t exactly be classified as stubble any longer. His usually pale skin is devoid of emotion or care, the product of dehydration and not giving a shit any longer. He’s used to seeing himself this way, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret what he’s become.

For someone whose job is their body and face, Derek is shit at taking care of himself. And then, _fuck,_ he remembers what an idiot he is, taking the Sacramento job.

It isn’t like he’s going to cancel the shoot, though, he thinks, as he steps under the hot jet of water in his shower, because really, he should have gone back a long time ago. He has a feeling that Stiles will take better to him apologizing if he does it in person, even if the apology is followed by a lot of bickering and hateful words and glances. He just…Derek has realized that he needs Stiles in his life. That he was a better person when he had Stiles on his side.

Even if it’s as just acquaintances that meet at Marcy’s Diner once a week, like Stiles said. If that is all that he can have, then so be it.

-          -

“Look, Derek,” Jackson is saying, his teeth gritting and grinding in his mouth, “you can’t _do_ this every time we get to a shoot and you suddenly don’t feel like you want to do it anymore. Accept the facts. You’re here. You’re getting paid. Shut the fuck up and get naked.”

Derek’s response is to glare at him. There’s a monumental amount of glaring and glowering when the two are in the same room together, really. It’s getting ridiculous. And yeah, Derek has thought about firing his ass, but he’s actually a fantastic agent, and Derek doesn’t know if he can afford to fire him.

No, what’s ridiculous is that they even _made_ this deal; he got to go to Sacramento, do the gig, and relax in the nearby cities for two or three weeks—no hassle from Jackson to get him into more than a shoot a month. Derek wants the time off, but he’d rather not have been forced into this stupid situation. He is starting to think it isn’t worth it.

The agent’s eyes roll, head turning to the side before he looks at Derek again. “The directors aren’t going to want your stuff if you keep being a major pain in the ass. First, it was that they didn’t have energy drinks. Now, you won’t shoot naked with your partner? Come _on_ , Derek, it’s not like you haven’t done it _before._ Be professional.” Derek thinks he can see the spit coming from Jackson’s mouth as he says, “You’re making me look bad.”

The model often relishes in the amount that Jackson gets worked up over his professional appearance. Now, though, he’s just sort of agitated. A scowl still in place, he crosses his arms over his robed chest. “You’re just upset because that Martin agent is here. You’re upset because she gets more business than you do and she looks better than you while doing it.”

Jackson turns on his heel, mouth pursed and eyebrows inverted. Damn him for being the only person who can match Derek’s sneering abilities. “Do the fucking shoot, you stubborn dick.”

Derek may or may not make a rude gesture at his back, but if he does, he makes sure no one sees.

It’s not that he minds taking off his clothes—he _can’t,_ not in his profession—but the model he’d be posing with is one he’s shot with before. Kate Argent. They’d dated in the beginning of his career. She was a few years older, and his parents had encouraged them to be together, saying it would boost his status. He’d been in love with her for a while, but it was only after the death of his parents that he realized that she didn’t love him.

It had been his first encounter with heartbreak, and it is something he prefers not think about, when he can help it.

Unfortunately, like his parents, companies think they look _great_ together—something about coloring and sex appeal—and always cast them in the same ads. While it pays twice as much as a single shoot, when they pose together, it is awful. It’s almost not worth the time off, really.

Kate is bad enough when she likes you. When you’re someone she’s dumped, she’s about ten times worse. She always makes it her goal to make him feel uncomfortable during shoots, touching his ass and tugging on his ears and whispering disgusting things in his ears. He can’t _work_ like that, getting flustered. She just laughs when he rages off set. The times he’s worked with her since he left Stiles have been the worst, though, when she starts making comments about how he’s not gotten any better at pleasing partners. He’s not even sure how she found out about his breakup, but it doesn’t help anything.

He walks up to the set, dropping his robe on the floor with a glower. He doesn’t even flinch when two hands slap his ass, just feels his frown deepen. “Kate,” he allows, but the word tastes sour in his mouth.

The grin on her face makes him want to leave the set all together. “Der, hon. Hi,” she says, but the sugar in her tone makes him want to throw up. Her voice is like cough syrup; thick and sweet with a bad after taste. She turns her head to the side, her blonde hair spilling over her naked shoulders. “Lydia told me you didn’t want to work with me today. Glad to see you changed your mind.” She makes something like a pleased hum in the back of her throat. “You always do, don’t you.”

He hates that, that way she never asks questions, just assumes and concludes and doesn’t let you speak unless she knows what you’re going to say.

Derek tries his best not to grit his teeth, he does—his dentist has been telling him to be aware of it, since it’s apparently starting to wear on them—but even just the sound of her voice makes him want to shatter something. “I didn’t change my mind. I still don’t want to do this. I really hope you don’t mistake this as willing participation, because I’d rather be burning in hell than touching you in any way.”

The malicious smirk on her face doesn’t falter, just acquires an edge that makes Derek shrink back into himself. “Just get on the damn set, sweetie, and get your pretty ass on camera, yeah?” With another smack to his ass, she fell onto the arranged chair.

It was going to be a long day.

-          -

Finally, when the day is over and they’ve had both enough good shots and bad-tempered bantering, Derek is about 77% certain that they won’t be requesting either one of them again, let alone together.

Derek is really, really okay with that.

When he finally collapses on his bed—yes, in that very hotel you can see Stiles and Derek’s apartment from—he can’t even find it in himself to open the fridge and grab a beer. And maybe that’s okay, too, because it has become far too important in his life. It was always something that Stiles had hated about him, and he didn’t want to screw anything up by calling him drunk, now that they were in the same city.

The ceiling is distracting, for a while, and he lets it consume his attention. He’s gotten used to finding interesting things from silence and boredom. (He’s watched at least 3/4ths of Netflix’s inventory since he and Stiles ended. It’s actually sort of horrible, if he thinks about it, how absolutely dull his life has been. Sure, he’s been making money and putting it in the bank, and going to the gym, and watching movies and TV shows, but he hasn’t really _done_ anything)

It takes—and he counts—a total of sixteen minutes and thirty-six seconds for him to look across the street, to search for the window that he used to walk past so many times a day.

He can’t say he likes what he sees.

There are two heads in the window, close together on the couch he’d left behind. The flickering lights of a movie long forgotten flash on their faces, accompanying twin grins. Stiles is sitting there, happiness clear in his features, faced toward him—and, god, if he thought hearing his voice killed him, seeing the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, or the way his face is flushing slightly at the closeness of the twenty-something on their (his) couch decimated him in ways he didn’t know were possible—like he knows he’s there. Or, maybe, like he’s completely ignorant of Derek’s presence, which is probably how it should be.

The man cuddled into his side is Hawaiian, that much is clear, dimples evident even from the thirty or so feet across the road. Derek hates him immediately, without reserve. He hates the way his fingers tease behind Stiles’ ear until he laughs, hates how easily his arm is slung around Stiles’ shoulders. He hates that it isn’t him in that apartment, but doesn’t kid himself with wishes that he ever will be. He doesn’t even deserve to think it.

And then he sees their faces press closer, and he can almost feel the way Stiles’ lips must feel, must _taste_ , and he thinks maybe he could use that beer after all.

He’s probably never regretted the choice that led him away more than he does now, watching those long, skinny fingers wrap in the Hawaiian’s hair, as he imagines their tongues entwining like they belong in each other’s mouths. His chest is inflamed with things that can’t be named, but it feels like the air in his lungs is condensing all at once. It feels like he’s drowning, like he’s been drowning for such a long, long time. It’s just dawning on him now, though, a cruel, hard slap to the face.

But Stiles is air.

And, really, all he needs is a breath. 


End file.
